


Of Shadows Fallen

by eyres



Series: Breathe Dead Hippo [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF McCoy, BAMF Spock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Revenge, here be dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyres/pseuds/eyres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock and Leonard leave everything behind with only two goals guiding them: keep Jim safe and take revenge on those who hurt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shadows Fallen

On Earth, red means stop, wrong, fire, passion – the planet wide color of death and danger and love. It is a contradiction – like many humans. On Vulcan, red means warmth, safety, home. Victory. Sating lust and the sun rising on vast beautiful deserts. It is steady and constant, the low burning of a banked fire.

 

The bedroom is dark and silent, linen white sheets and gray rugs. Clean lines and cool dark tones that are nothing like the warm red golden beauty that Spock has lost. 

 

He breathes in, breathes out, watches that man sleeping on the bed do the same. And then, he slides the knife across his throat, watches the red well up and flood over.

 

The man’s eyes open, blown wide by shock and terror yanked from sleep into a nightmare. He gasps, silent as his life throbs out of him. In just 21.4 seconds, he sleeps again, but no breath passes his lips. Warm red pools and spills across the white sheets, the gray rug. The red of victory. Spock counts his own heartbeats as the blood seeps outward.

 

This is the closest approximation of meditation that he can achieve now.

 

Spock slides the knife away and takes the admiral pin from the bedside table before he leaves, quietly as he came. There are no dogs barking, no alarms ringing, nothing to indicate he was here except the body in red sheets. His work is neat and clean, practiced and precise. Red.

 

“Doctor McCoy,” he says into his comm, when he’s out of the house, walking down a quiet California street in predawn light. “One to beam out.”

 

He pauses underneath a fig tree and lets the gold light take him.

 

The transporter room is cramped and the doctor crosses from the controls to him in only one step when he materializes back on the pad.

 

They stare at each other until McCoy, gruff and severe, reaches out. “You got blood on your chin.” His thumb lands on the spot, rubbing down, and his thoughts come rising up _good good another one gone oh god what are we doing make them suffer._

Spock steps back. After one of these excursions, some times it is hard to bear any touch. Spock had not achieved perfect control over his emotions in one year, two months and three days. “How is he?”

 

“I got him to sleep. Wasn’t happy about you not being there tonight. I told him we’d come see him when you got back.” His drawl increases at a rate of 2.3% for every hour of sleep he loses.

 

Spock catalogues the weariness in his eyes, the human weakness shaking his hands. They have spent too long near Earth this time.  But there were so many (216 more within Starfleet alone) who needed to suffer retribution for their crimes. 

 

The blood lust that throbs in his chest abates – sated by the recent vengeance and the tired eyes of his companion. “We should rest for a time, Doctor. Planathais II on the outer rim, perhaps? Jim… enjoyed it the last time and the Federation has no friends there.” He reaches up, braces himself, and touches McCoy’s cheek.   _Quiet peace taking care of Jim resting all our revenge can wait for a time._

 

McCoy’s face relaxes, just a little.

 

It will take them 3 weeks, 4 days and 16 hours to reach the planet on their small starship. McCoy will be able to sleep while Spock pilots – perhaps the rest will help the weariness, soothe him in the places that vengeance cannot.

 

There is no rest for Spock. He has not been able to meditate, not been able to center himself. He exists until human exhaustion forces him into dreamless, restless sleep.

 

“Spuh-spock.”

 

Both men turn and Jim is there, frail and barefoot in sleep pants and a baggy t-shirt, shaky on his bad leg. Dark blond hair is long and rumpled across his forehead, no Starfleet regulations to keep it short.  His eyes are huge in his thin face, bright and blue and gentle, fixed on Spock. He makes a movement forward, but his bad leg shakes and he stumbles.

 

“Jim,” Spock crosses to him. He leaves the last tendrils of _make them suffer_ behind him and soothes Jim’s shoulders with his hands, projecting nothing but _warm love sweet rest blue sky lullabies_ as he takes his weight into his chest.

 

Jim leans into him, trembling hands coming up and latching onto Spock’s shirt. His muzzy, jumbled, simple thoughts are different (Spock’s mind shies away from trying to calculate the precise percentage his captain has changed) than the quick, sharp intellect of the Jim Spock loved a year ago.

 

Carefully, Spock soothes the confusion and half-formed fears, cradles the precious, shining pieces of Jim that are left.

 

“Hey, kiddo, why are you outta bed?” McCoy comes up and pushes at Jim’s bangs, gruff and gentle. Spock has seen those same hands choke life from bodies, send poison into veins – but with Jim, with Spock, Leonard is still a healer. “Told you we’d be in.”

 

Jim’s heartbeat is steady, skin temperature normal as he blinks tiredly against Spock. His sagging eyelids indicate that sleep will come in 5.3 minutes if proper comfort is applied. Spock lifts him easily, the familiar frame 12.6% lighter now than it had been a year before.

 

“I tried to w-wait for y-you,” he whispers, face turning into Spock’s shoulder. His stutter is more pronounced when he is tired or frightened.

 

“I am here now.” It is an illogical thing to say – but he has found that Jim takes comfort in verbal reassurances of obvious facts. He carries him to the one small bedroom just a few steps down the hallway, settles him into the large bed that takes most of the space. “Sleep now, Jim. Leonard and I are here.”

 

“B-bones?” Jim’s foggy blue eyes roam until they fix on the human at Spock’s shoulder. “Sleep?”

 

“Yeah, Jim. I’m here.” McCoy slides into the bed, cradling Jim’s curled form against his chest. He presses a kiss against Jim’s hair, closes his eyes. “We’re all home now, darlin’.”

 

Jim sighs, soft and gentle, still fighting to keep his eyes open and looking at Spock, like he is afraid he will vanish. “D-don’t like it when y-you l-leave.”

 

McCoy shushes him, stroking the side of his face. “He’s back now, Jim. He’ll be here when you wake up. We both will.”

 

There is a 35% chance that the body Spock left on Earth will be discovered in the next two hours – and a 75% chance it will be discovered in the next four. It would be highly illogical to stay in Earth’s atmosphere any longer than necessary.

 

And, yet.

 

He runs his hand over Jim’s face, pushing away the dark nightmares and filling his mind with dreams of stars and light and warm deserts. “Sleep,” he murmurs as Jim’s eyes finally close and he relaxes against McCoy.

 

McCoy catches his hand before he pulls away, eyes burning cold and hard in a way that he never lets Jim see. “You did good, Spock. You got him. Next time it’s my turn, yeah?” _anger so much anger the need to hurt and murder and make them pay suffer tear them apart._

 

Spock nods, understanding. He feels McCoy’s eyes on him as he pivots and goes to the far wall. The red tapestry covers the entire length, neatly divided into sections. There are no words or pictures or distinguishing markings. It would be illogical to put them where none are needed.  The wall is for McCoy and him. It is theirs.

 

The admiral pin in his pocket joins a perfectly straight even row of four others, underneath thin strips of Starfleet uniform shirts. He steps back, surveys the scraps of uniforms, the bits of hair or jewelry or other trinkets. The ones belonging to Spock tend to be neat and clean – McCoy’s are rough and ragged, sometimes with a bit of blood still on them.

 

And there is still so much space to be filled.  So many lives that need to pay for the damage they wrought upon their captain.  His fists tighten and the blood lust, never far away, licks at his thoughts.

 

McCoy’s eyes meet his when he turns back around, the same hot anger burning. He nods once at Spock, brushing a hand down Jim’s back. Spock does not need touch to know his mind.

 

_One more down._

 

He leaves them to sleep as he goes to the small bridge, warping them far away from the bitter taste of Earth. As he watches the stars stream passed, he thinks that the world used to look so large.

 

It is illogical to think that the universe has shrunk – but it has. The vastness of possibilities, adventures, and Jim had collapsed the day their captain had been taken. Now, the universe was small, simple, terrifying. The limitless paths Spock and Leonard’s lives could have taken are narrowed to just one.

 

Keep Jim safe and happy. Rain vengeance down on those responsible for his hurts.

 

It is a path they will walk together for as long as they can.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fragment of an idea stemming from too much Boardwalk Empire. Maybe it will grow into something more.


End file.
